The Irish Duchess (31 page)

He used his tongue to drive her almost to the pinnacle and drew back, teasing her. He didn’t move fast enough. Brashly, Fiona attacked the buttons of his trousers and triumph surged at his shout of freedom.

Swiftly, he rolled over and pulled her on top of him. Startled, Fiona gazed down into silvered eyes, heavy-lidded with desire. Golden brown hair fell over Neville’s noble brow and the bristles of his beard shadowed his jaw. He still wore his lace-edged shirt, although it lay half open, revealing the brown hairs curling against his muscled chest. Desire heated her blood, but the look in his eyes shot straight to her heart. “Love me,” he commanded.

Foolish man, to think he could command such a thing as love. But she wasn’t at all certain that he knew what he was saying. Perhaps this was what he thought love was—a passionate tumble between the covers. If so, she would provide it for him. Fiona realized she needed his happiness to complete her own.

“Show me,” she whispered.

He obliged, lifting her to accommodate him. He still wore his muddy boots and trousers. She was as naked as the day she was born. Wild abandon swept her as she thrilled to the power of her new position. Joy bubbled out as laughter as he surged upward and into her.

She couldn’t thrust fast enough for him. He rolled her onto her back and took charge again, plunging deeper and more powerfully with each stroke until Fiona lost all consciousness of everything but the deep driving need for completion.

It erupted in a burst of wildfire and molten lava, consuming them so swiftly, Fiona could scarcely catch her breath. They quaked together, perspiration oiling their flesh in all the places where they rubbed. The musk of their mating perfumed the air around them.

And Fiona realized how much this had become a part of her life. She didn’t want him to leave again.

That thought scared her even more than Neville’s temper. As their over-heated bodies cooled, he pulled the covers around her, and sat up to remove his boots. As they did so often, they said nothing, although the air between them thickened with unspoken words. Somehow, they must learn to speak of these things, Fiona thought as Neville lay down beside her, bootless, and pulled her into his arms. Terrified that this might be all they had between them, she couldn’t bear to disturb the beauty of it with words.

So she snuggled against his shoulder and slept, leaving all the words for another day.

***

“I’m sorry, Neville, but the man is a stiff-rumped snob of the worst degree, and I’ll not have him dictate to me or mine. I swear, I shall sell your family jewels and fund a cathedral before I’ll set foot in that man’s church again. For all I know, I’ve given up my eternal soul for you, but I’ll be damned if I suffer the torments of hell before I must.”

Neville tried to keep his lips from twitching at the fiery tirade as his petite wife paced up and down the carpet of his study for all the world as if she were as large and strong as Effingham. He could span her waist with his hands, throw her over his shoulder with no more effort than a sack of grain, but her attitude was twice as large as her puny size. Or her current size, anyway. He grinned inwardly at that amendment.

“The jewels are entailed. We can’t sell them,” he informed her, knowing perfectly well that his composure only drove Fiona to greater heights of fury. He sat back and sipped his brandy in the firelight and watched her go up in flames.

“Then I’ll bloody well pawn them!” she shouted, flinging her hands in the air, and dislodging her auburn curls until several tumbled over her shoulders. “I’ll not set foot in that hypocrite’s church, Neville. I won’t!” She stamped her foot for emphasis.

“All right, don’t.” He kept as straight a face as he could muster beneath her disbelieving stare. “His living comes from Anglesey, though. Would you deprive the entire village of his services?”

“I would,” she grumbled mutinously, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d not put a farthing in that pinch-penny’s cup. The village can attend chapel here, with us. If I can endure that Methodist sermonizing, so can they.”

Neville sincerely hoped the new Methodist preacher had sense enough to avoid topics that raised his duchess wife’s ire, but knowing the breed, he expected further rebellion in the ranks. Perhaps it was time to teach Fiona the responsibilities of so much power. She had certainly grasped its uses quickly enough.

“Ravensworth has a family, a poor brow-beaten wife who has favored him with five lovely daughters. They’re all well-behaved, unspoiled chits who go behind his back to help those in need. Would you put them out of the only home they know just because you disagree with their father’s stiff-necked prejudices?”

Fiona’s mouth opened, but nothing emerged. With some practice, Neville thought he might become good at this. He did have a few more years of experience than she.

Before she could find an adequate reply, Neville continued without a trace of admonishment. “I think we can adequately fund your Methodist as well as the vicarage, since the chapel is already here and needs regular maintenance whether used or not. But you must realize that once this new man comes to rely on Anglesey income, he’ll start planning a life of his own—a wife, children, a house of some sort. Should you decide you dislike his teachings, you will face the same difficulty dislodging him as we face with the vicar now. The power we wield over peoples’ lives is a dangerous thing, Fiona.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as she absorbed this lesson. Neville had no doubt she would have learned it sooner or later on her own. He gave her credit for an intelligence equal to his. He just didn’t want her learning the hard way.

“I’ve been playing duchess, haven’t I?” she asked, huddling within herself as she stood in front of the fire.

Satisfied he’d made his point, Neville set his glass down and crossed the room to stand before her. “No, you are playing the part of Fiona, savior of the world, as always. You were born to be a duchess. I could not have chosen better had I searched the heavens.”

A tear winked briefly in her eye as she turned toward him. “I’m not born to the silver, your honor. You’ve seen that for yourself. I can’t not help with the thatching, or interfering with the vicar or the steward or any of those other things I’ve done. It’s not in me to be idle.”

“You will learn soon enough that the more power you assume, the more work you must do. At some point, you’ll have to delegate some of your authority to others and hope for the best.”

He cupped her face in his palm. He was so full of joy at this minute, he thought he might burst. Joy, and pride, he admitted, without conceit. He’d had so little of those things in his life, he savored them now. Had he a choice, he would shut out London and Parliament and all his worldly duties, and remain here, basking in the contentment of home and family. He hadn’t thought such emotion possible, not for him. Fiona had taught him otherwise.

He kissed her, and her response told him the time was ripe. He wanted to share this new found joy. Gently, he stroked her sides, cupping the fullness of her breasts, spanning her waist with his hands. Was it his imagination, or was there a gap between his fingers that hadn’t been there before?

Smiling at the thought, Neville lifted his head and watched the shadows flit across Fiona’s lovely face. “Your list of responsibilities already grows greater, does it not? In a few months time, you will be supervising a nursery. I understand that is a considerable task.”

Fiona’s breath caught in her throat as she stared into Neville’s sparkling eyes. She had never seen such pure joy there, not even when they made love. She could scarcely conceal the leap of hope in her heart. “How did you know?” she asked, searching his face for clues. “I’d thought I’d wait until I was further along to tell you, so you needn’t worry more than you must.”

She thought his smile the most beautiful she’d ever seen. She loved the way Neville’s upper lip curved, and the way his lower lip beckoned to be kissed. Daringly, she rested her palms against his waistcoat and admired this awesome duke, her husband.

“Did you think I did not memorize every inch of your lovely body, my Fiona? How your breast weighs just so in my hand?” He cupped her through the wool of her gown. “How your waist fits the span of my hands?” He measured her there again, as he had before. “Did you think I’d not notice my thumbs no longer meet and that your breast weighs heavier?”

His expressive eyebrows raised, revealing the glint of humor in his eyes. She loved his dry humor. She ought to smack him for hinting she had grown fat. But she was proud of that extra inch of waistline.

“What will you do when I grow so big and round your arms cannot encompass me?”

“I’ll hug you from behind,” he whispered in her ear as he showed her how well she still fit within his embrace.

“What if it’s a girl I carry and not your precious heir?” she asked defiantly, biting her lip to hide her fear.

“I will be overjoyed that we must take another wedding journey and try again.” He chuckled when she pinched him through his waistcoat. He captured her hands, pulling them behind her. “Let us not get out of practice while we wait to see what it will be. You will not deny me now that you’ve done your duty?”

As if she could, Fiona thought wildly as Neville’s mouth descended on hers. That was the last coherent thought she had before the very proper, very staid Duke of Anglesey laid her on the carpet before the fire and had his way with her.

***

“Durham, you’re a sapskull! You’ve accomplished absolutely nothing except cementing the relationship between that unholy triumvirate more thoroughly than ever. Effingham is laughing in our faces and Aberdare threatens to cut off the ears of the next person who defames his cousin. The duke doesn’t need to say a word,” Townsend shouted at the man standing in front of his desk.

Slump-shouldered, Durham brushed at his receding black hair and toyed with his threatened ears. “I had Aberdare’s people up in arms and ready to burn the castle, but the earl interfered with his lies. Then McGonigle reneged on his promises, all because of the duke and that damned female. Who would have thought the duke would fall for that pestilent chit? I never gave her a thought.”

“You were supposed to keep Aberdare and the duke in
Ireland
and out of London entirely. Instead, you got some poor peasant robbed and killed and set all Effingham’s spies after us. It’s time you started earning your way around here.”

Durham tugged nervously at his ear. “Burke’s death was an accident. I keep telling you, nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

“Right. You loose a band of ruffians to burn a castle and think no one will get hurt? Don’t be a lobcock, Durham. People get hurt all the time. Power goes to the strongest, and the weak get hurt. That’s how the world operates. I swear, if you weren’t my son-in- law, I’d...”

Durham straightened his shoulders and tugged at his tweed coat. “I can do it, sir. I can have all three of them out of London before the bill comes to a vote. You just need to raise the majority, and the cabinet post is yours, sir.”

The older man behind the desk looked vaguely placated. “See that you do, Durham. I’m not rich as Croesus and my daughter’s portion dwindles with every minute we waste here.”

Holding his shoulders rigid and his paunchy stomach in, Durham nodded briskly. “Right you are, sir. I’ll take care of the matter.”

He marched out, not seeing the balding, bespectacled clerk holding the door for him.

The clerk’s worried frown would have given him away had anyone looked, but men of wealth and power never noticed ten-shilling-a-year clerks.

Thirty

“Must you go so soon?” Fiona asked as Neville shrugged into his caped greatcoat.

Surely a warm fire would be much more pleasant than a ride to London in the wintry gloom. Shouldn’t dukes have the right to do as they pleased? She didn’t ask the question aloud. She already knew her noble husband’s response.

“I’ve already lost all my work on the Emancipation Bill while I dallied with you in Ireland, Fiona. I cannot afford to let the crime reform bill die, too.” With his usual gruff impatience, Neville fastened his coat and jerked on his gloves. “The lives of too many people are at stake.”

“I cannot believe a wee bit of paper will save them,” Fiona replied bitterly. “The bloody English never let bits of paper stop them before. They’ll just find new and more infernal ways of disposing of those who annoy them.”

Neville brushed a kiss across her forehead. “I’ve already explained the importance of this bill and I’ll not argue, my love. There’s no time. Write me a nasty flaming letter excoriating the entire government if you will, but if I’m to reach London by dark, I must set off now.”

“You’re taking riders with you this time?” she demanded.

“I can’t afford to waste coins on nannies to watch over me. This isn’t Ireland. The roads are well-traveled. I blend in with the crowd. Now, will you promise me you’ll try to behave while I’m gone?”

“I’m not a child, Neville,” she replied peevishly. “I’ll not execute any vicars or import the Pope, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, the Pope’s blessing might help, but his presence definitely would not. Take care of yourself. No more roof thatching.”

With that last admonition, he swept out the side entrance to the horse waiting under the portico. Fiona watched him go with a wretchedness she could not endure. She had tried pretending that he was the irritating arrogant duke she once thought him, but she knew better. He’d ignored her barbs, calmly brushed aside her arguments, and though he spoke as if annoyed by their dallying in Ireland, he kissed her as if she were the trusted and beloved wife she wanted to be. She knew she wasn’t any such timid creature, and he’d discover it soon enough.

Through the rain splattered windows, she watched Neville’s proud, upright form ride past the gate. The emptiness in her heart echoed as loud as the mansion’s cavernous banquet room. It was a terrible, dismaying feeling, knowing that Neville took a part of her soul with him when he left.

Perhaps it was the child, Fiona thought as she turned away from the window. She wasn’t particularly frightened of the natural occurrences of pregnancy and childbirth. But perhaps that state required the extra reassurance of a husband’s presence. If so, how had poor Aileen endured it?